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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892656">Where we Build</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506'>Project0506</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soft Wars [108]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Friendship, Gen, Tup is a Disney Princess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 08:35:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,288</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25892656</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a few fundamental differences between a tree and a house.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dogma &amp; CT-5385 | Tup</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Soft Wars [108]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>433</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Where we Build</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It is an enduring tragedy that, after everything is done, Tup is the only one of them left without a house.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em>have</em> a house.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have a tree,” Dogma corrects. “It’s a very nice tree,” because Tup <em>is</em> still his best friend and it <em>is</em> a nice tree, as trees go. “Very tall. But it’s not a house.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s my home.”</p><p> </p><p>It says something about Tup, where he chose to quite literally put down roots. Dogma isn’t sure <em>what</em> it says, but it does say something. But Tup strides away and even Dogma can tell that this conversation is over. He trots behind the other, repulsorsled on his heels like a pup.</p><p> </p><p>The forest Tup’s picked as his is a nice one, if you’re into that. The trees here are unfathomably old, and sing sleepily in the very roots of Dogma’s teeth with whispers of ages past. Dozens of them will twist over and around each other until the sum of them is thicker around than five entire squads could ring holding hands. Naturally pocked with cozy alcoves all through, they’d barely had to widen anything though Tinker and Ratchet had spent days complaining about how hard it was to insulate without hurting the tree. Dogma can kind of see the appeal.</p><p> </p><p>No, that’s a lie. He really doesn’t. It’s a pretty place to visit, but they’re all lending hands to make sure everyone is built a home and Tup deserves a whole lot more than a tree in a forest. He’d have hoped Tup knew that.</p><p> </p><p>“Those,” Tup says. Dogma obediently fetches the blue and brown rocks, gamely adds them to the sled atop the pile of branches and flowers they’ve already found.</p><p> </p><p>“What are these for?” There’s a scatter of red-orange leaves, almost gold in the shadows and Dogma grabs one of the shed ones.</p><p> </p><p>Always the shed ones: leaves, flowers, branches. Tup doesn’t like to pull from ones that could still grow.</p><p> </p><p>Dogma pokes the stem through Tup’s braid, right below a fluffy brown feather. Tup grins, taps his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know yet. But they’re pretty, I’ll think of something.”</p><p> </p><p>They are pretty, Dogma thinks, if you’re into that. Tup is though. His tree is littered with colorful rocks doubling as bookends and table legs. There’s a pretty ingenious chain of shiny things all along the upper branches that shimmer dancing lights all the way down the trunk, deep into the recess among the roots where Tup has posted his hammock bed. They free hang and dance whenever there’s wind. Dogma likes to tap them to watch how the light changes. They really are very pretty.</p><p> </p><p>But it’s still not a house, is it?</p><p> </p><p>Dogma has a house. Lots of space, lots more space than he knew people could live in. It’s right up against the line where Concordia’s wall has crumbled. It’s nice. Big windows, lots of doors, smooth floors. Lots of space to put things in, once Dogma figures out what that should be. It’s not barely head-sized knotholes fitted with transpariplast cut to fit instead of smoothed into a normal window-shape. It’s not windy, twisty, barely foot-sized stair-steps carved carefully into the inside of a trunk.</p><p> </p><p>Dogma’s connected to the power grid. Tup only got a generator on sufferance, and only as an emergency backup. He says it’s too loud. Dogma doesn’t understand it; the water catchments all down the trunks are much louder when it rains, and it does that nearly every day here. There’s a difference in the noises, Tup says.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh! These!” More wood, nearly straight and thick as Dogma’s wrist. They hunt around the trees for as many as they can find. “If I join them it could be a backboard for something maybe,” Tup bubbles. “Or if we find enough maybe shelves for one of the insets.”</p><p> </p><p>“Or a door.” Captain Rex says his door is always open and he actually means literally. But he at least <em>has</em> a door. “A house should have a door. Not just a hole.” Dogma can feel the weight of Tup’s consideration and he chooses not to look back. “If. If you’re insisting on living in a tree then you need to have a door. That way people know that it’s not just a tree.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’d think the wind chimes would probably give it away,” Tup offers and Dogma decides to ignore that.</p><p> </p><p>The distant hum of the wildlife barrier vibrates oddly in the hairs on Dogma’s arms. It’s a necessity with the sheer ferocity of most wildlife on Concord Dawn, though it’s a little bit harder to ignore so close. They’re both armed, just in case.</p><p> </p><p>Stuns. Tup has opinions about killing things close to his tree. His rules are odd, but consistent. They don’t really bother Dogma. If they bother anyone else, they don’t make the mistake of saying it where Dogma can hear.</p><p> </p><p>“What would I even need a door for?”</p><p> </p><p>“Doors separate spaces.” Dogma doesn’t know how to explain it better than that. Tup hums again, and maybe he doesn’t have to.</p><p> </p><p>“You mean like ownership. It isn’t my forest though.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s your tree.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s its own tree. I just live in it.”</p><p> </p><p>Dogma rolls his eyes. He’s learned to tell when Tup is arguing just for the fun of it. Domino has been a terrible influence, really. He says as much, just to hear Tup giggle.</p><p> </p><p>“Because I didn’t know <em>anyone</em> incredibly opinionated before I met Domino squad.”</p><p> </p><p>Dogma decides to ignore that too. Slander.</p><p> </p><p>Rain shushes high overhead, few drops making their way through the thick canopy to spot at their hair and shoulders. A flock of somethings call to each other somewhere closer. Dogma waits for Tup to look for sight of them, makes sure its ones he already has pictures of. He pushes on instead.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll come back,” he says instead. “Let’s get home before you get wet.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’d be okay.” But Tup insists. They make it to the tree hole just as thunder rumbles and the shush deepens to a shout. They leave the sled just inside; Dogma stores their finds in the hidey holes Tup’s designated for such. Tup checks the solar batteries on his stove and heats up nutmilk with chocolate. They find space on one of the balconies and watch the storm roll in.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you happy?”</p><p> </p><p>The world smells of water and loam.  Strings of tinking shiny things titter overhead. Tup skrit-skrit-skrits at the bark of a branch and smooths the wood beneath to a shine. A man’s length up and an arm’s over, a family of opinionated blue-feathered things have moved in, enough satisfied with the nuts Tup leaves out to risk nesting close. Tup’s added one of their shed feathers to his braid.</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” No guesses, no need to wonder and contemplate. Tup who gripped a Lartie handhold with two desperate fists whenever they flew now bounces up and down tiny stairs without care. He smiles with his whole face. Dogma almost didn’t need to ask.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay,” Dogma decides. “Your tree is fine then.”</p><p> </p><p>Tup laughs and lets Dogma steal some of the branches. Sneaks him more of the chocolate while his hands are occupied. They can make a door for Tup’s tree hole, with nice quiet hinges that won’t bother him, so everyone knows that it’s his space.</p><p> </p><p>They can stain it something really bright. Yeah, Dogma thinks. Bright things suit Tup.</p><p> </p><p>He listens, hard, under the rain and the birds and the sander and there’s a harmony ringing. The tune feels good. The tree suits Tup too. Dogma doesn’t need to understand it, it’s enough that he can be happy for him.</p><p> </p><p>Even if he did decide to live up a tree.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><div class="children module" id="children">
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